Mirabilis jalapa
by the quintessence of wyrd
Summary: At Harry's funeral, Ginny contemplates their marriage and discovers something rather disturbing.


**Disclaimer:** Omgoshu I wishh

**A/N:** This is something that randomly sprung from my petty imagination...I think I will do more Luna drabbles built around this, too.

---

Out of all the tragic, dramatic ways Harry could have died magically, he opted for the one that had so much situational irony Ginny could taste it. He was at a pub. While crossing the street, drunk, a Muggle hit him, drunk, and there wasn't anything that could be done by the time the wizarding world was alerted.

All was not well. The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, Undesirable Number One, Conqueror of the Dark Lord, Former Husband of Ginny Weasley and Father of Three, was dead.

_And just think, we were all seeing Albus off to school at Platform Nine and Three Quarters a year ago,_ reflected Ginny in anguish. Somewhere nearby, Hagrid was blowing his nose loudly and hiccupping, "Great man, Harry Potter…"

The children were devastated. Ron and Hermione were inconsolable. Mum had gone off the deep end. And Ginny was sitting here, as palpable as the earth, yet feeling as if she were hovering above the world, remote from all this pain, deaf to the cacophony of grief, a silent, somber ghost. The worst part of it was, she wasn't sure whether it was because of Harry's death as much as it was because of her guilt-stricken conscience that caused these tears to mix with her mascara and run down her cheeks like polluted rivulets. A fabrication that patched her heart-it was then she gave out her loudest sob yet.

He looked at peace, as most corpses did. Ginny cupped his cold, pale cheek. It felt like marble. He appeared serene after death, but there was a barely perceptible furrow in his brow, as if he were condemning his wife for being there, for pretending to be the perfect loving spouse when in truth it had all been a lie-and it was then Ginny broke down and clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle her cry.

Everything had been perfect until around the time Lily learned to walk. Ginny wanted Harry to come to bed at night; he was too busy. Harry wanted a walk in the park together; Ginny wasn't interested. The starry eyes extinguished. Ceaseless chatter shrunk to awkward small talk. Off-colored remarks led to full-fledged fights and with each argument the chances of reconciling grew slimmer. Ginny and Harry wrapped themselves in inextricable knots of misunderstandings, widening the barrier that separated them-both too determined, too stubborn, too proud to back down. By this point they had reached a silent agreement: they would feign the good morning peck on the lips in front of a gagging James and Albus, they would listlessly toast to George's speech about true love on their anniversary, they would describe the day they met for the umpteenth time to a rapt Lily, and once they mechanically made love in an attempt to find even one little piece of what they shared when they were young and carefree. They had fooled everyone but themselves. They could not, Harry said, crumble into ashes like the proverbial phoenix, and rise to make new beginnings from separate lives. They had to press on together, even when the deception was wearing them out and rubbing them raw, even when avoiding controversy and protecting the family and placating the friends didn't seem worth it anymore. Ginny attempted to recall their very first kiss but couldn't remember the feel of passion that Harry had once stirred in her. _At least, _she thought tearfully, _at least the last words I said to him were "I love you."_

Albeit they were spoken in past tense, in a bitter, resentful shrill scream that seemed to rent the air just as Harry had angrily slammed the door behind him. All of a sudden "I love you" didn't seem to be the best parting words anymore, especially when they were the reason this lifeless body lay before her now, a painful reminder of the role she had played in her husband's death.

_I'm sorry I was such a terrible wife, _she said silently, all the while crying harder and pushing her sniveling daughter away because she felt so undeserving of comfort and sympathy,_ I'm sorry I'm the one who caused you to drown your sorrows in some smoky pub until the bartender said stop and bade you to leave, to stumble out and stare blearily into the horizon, your legs unsteadily making their way across the road, eyes squinting in the unprecedented oncoming bright lights-_

And as Ginny buried her face into her hands, she thought of all the times they had said vicious things they at first didn't mean but with time would harden into cruel purpose, but only when there was no one around to witness such an ugly spectacle, until Ginny would hex Harry or Harry would break another plate and the curtain would repeatedly fall on Harry storming out to the nearest bar and Ginny yelling curses after him. Then they would blame each other for the last fight, and then a new one would break out-but now Harry was dead, and it didn't matter, and it was all her fault.

Ron put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you ok, Gin?"

"I'm fine." Ginny shrugged it off. She got up, siphoned off her ruined makeup, and clumsily ambled off in search of something inscrutable. She returned with a wilting flower crushed in her fist. As she sucked in her last teary gasp, Ginny placed a lily in Harry's chilly, unyielding grasp, pressing it into his hand with a tenderness she had not displayed towards him since the early days of their marriage.

---

Ginny found herself, two hours later, accepting endless condolences and bidding farewell to the thousands that had come, the thousands of faceless people she would never see again, who were here because her husband just so happened to be a hero and a legend. She would incline her head, a gracious murmur would pass her lips, and the brim of her hat was tipped low enough to hide her empty, unresponsive eyes. Finally, when it seemed as if eternity had reached its limit and all the Time Turners in the world couldn't stop the ripping of time until it ceased to exist, a hand briefly touched her wrist for a moment, and Ginny looked up, awakened from her monotonous goodbyes. It was Luna Lovegood. 

Luna's straggly hair was done up with a large, velvet black bow that reminded Ginny of Umbridge's, with wisps of flyaway hair becoming undone. Her mourning robes were unkempt and her eyes were swollen and she looked completely exhausted, but she gave her friend a smile all the same. It was small, and suddenly Ginny felt as if she were catching some tiny bit of hope that Luna had somehow thrown at her, a lifeline. She grabbed it. "Hey, Luna. You look well."

Luna laughed. "As well as you?"

"Hey." Ginny tried to look offended, but gave up. She knew she looked like hell. She prayed the look was as graceful on her as it was on Luna. She stared at Luna's figure, envious. Luna looked like…well, like she hadn't given birth to three children. Then Ginny suddenly realized: "I haven't seen you in years! What have you been doing?"

"I've just been to Africa to study Erumpents in their natural habitat," Luna said.

"Sounds interesting. What, gave up on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" she added jokingly.

Luna smiled again. "Yes, I suppose so. But it's all fine; I've discovered six new species and that makes up for it."

"Well that's really great, Luna," said Ginny earnestly.

"Thanks." Luna paused. Ginny looked at her, surprised; she never knew Luna had tact. "What have you been doing?"

Ginny gestured around her. "Oh, you know. Mourning for a dead husband."

Luna gave her hand a squeeze, a squeeze that eased the pain a little. She put everything into that little squeeze, so that Ginny knew both the sincerity of Luna's empathy and what her friend was trying to convey, and nothing needed to be said to smooth things over because the air, before thick with tension, now seemed wonderfully refreshing. "Thank you…" Ginny suddenly felt like crying, but it was the good kind.

Luna answered with another understanding smile. She absentmindedly ruffled the head of a little girl, a little girl clinging to Luna who Ginny had not noticed before. "Oh! And who is this?" exclaimed Ginny.

"My daughter," said Luna very softly.

"What's her name?" Ginny asked, hardly daring to believe it. Luna had a child? And she never knew? It seemed they had some catching up to do.

"Four O' Clock," answered Luna. "Her name is Four O' Clock. It's a flower," she added as justification, at the look on Ginny's face.

Ginny laughed, her first genuine laugh in a long while. "Well, okay then." She stooped low in order to get a better look. "Why hello there, Four O' Clock," said Ginny, addressing the girl who only reached Luna's waist and even managing a feeble grin. "How old are you?"

The little girl stared at her wordlessly before ducking behind her mother's skirt. Ginny's heart gave an erratic thud-not because the girl's dirty blonde mane resembled her mother's, or the girl was queerly dressed-but because her wide, unblinking eyes were a shade of green so brilliant Ginny thought the last time she would ever see them was when they were glaring at her and then turning away, attached to a face she last saw lying still in a casket.

"She's eight," offered Luna after several minutes of silence ticked by.

"Eight," repeated Ginny faintly, as sick possibilities lurched around in her mind. She swayed a little on the spot.; her stomach felt queasy.

"She can be a bit withdrawn sometimes," apologized Luna, her voice sounding very far away. "But she's feisty, too, like her father." Was it Ginny's imagination, or did Luna hesitate? _She's feisty, too…like her father. _Her father? _Her father?_ Yet Ginny's lips couldn't form the seemingly innocent question; she gaped at Luna and her little carbon copy, her mouth opening and closing without making a single sound. The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. Luna finally broke it with a flimsy hand gesture and a weak laugh. "I'm sorry…but I can't stay for long. Dad wasn't able to come as he  
had contracted scrofungulus a few weeks ago and the Healers wouldn't let him leave St. Mungo's just yet. He's been waiting for me to visit and give him all the details."

Ginny laughed too. It was a horrible, fake laugh, but she wasn't up to any decent acting right now. The tension had returned "See you then, Lu."

"I'll try to keep in touch," Luna promised. "But there aren't any Owls that can do an international flight, I'm afraid…"

"Okay," Ginny's hands shook as they robotically embraced Luna and waved in farewell as Luna Disapparated alongside her daughter, the daughter with the familiar eyes.

And as Ginny turned away, to attend to pressing matters at hand, such as composing an epitaph for her green-eyed, feisty dead husband, her inferences and assumptions clawed at her mind, until she was forced to think: _Would Harry…?_

Standing for a moment, her hand reaching out as if she had spotted an answer, she felt disorientated. "Mum!" called James. "The eulogist wants to talk to you!"

She shook her head.

_No, he couldn't have possibly…_

And with that, she dismissed her ludicrous thoughts, pushing them firmly aside, and hurried to join the congregation beside her husband's casket.


End file.
